


A Five-Sided Problem

by jamsconesandjohnlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A bit sad, Angst, Comforting John, Comforting Sherlock, Confused Sherlock, Cute, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Kidnapped John, Kidnapping, M/M, Relationship(s), Romantic Friendship, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Unexpected Emotions, fluffy memories, lots of emotions, mild violence, very emotional
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-01-14 07:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1258201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamsconesandjohnlock/pseuds/jamsconesandjohnlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is kidnapped on his way to work, leaving Sherlock as the only person who may be able to rescue him. Each man is lost without the other, stirring up emotions whose existence they had not even considered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was normal, cold, October morning. John had been harshly awakened by his screaming alarm clock at 6:30. Groggily he scrambled into his clothes before chucking two slices of bread in the toaster and waiting for them to pop-up.  
Nothing about this morning seemed particularly out of the ordinary: no post, no missed phone calls, nothing had been set on fire by his flatmate, yet at least. John took the minute he spent waiting for his breakfast to contemplate how nice it was that he hadn't been rudely awakened by the mournful sound of the violin at two in the morning, which happened much more often than John would have liked, but on the other hand, John asking him to stop would result in an unhappy Sherlock which made for an unhappy John and so it wasn't worth mentioning.  
Toast finished, and teeth brushed he finally raced out of the door at 7:05. Running five minutes later than usual, due to the fact that Sherlock had decided to 'reorganise' the medicine cabinet with a number of jars, who's contents John didn't like to think on too much, blocking the way to his mouthwash. Finding his way through the jungle of specimen's had proven quite a struggle; as a consequence, John had failed to notice the unfamiliar black four-by-four which began to follow him as he left Baker Street. He marched on down the icy pavement, brown leather satchel on his shoulder, not really observing his surroundings except to look down at the concrete slabs he walked on to try his best not to spoil his shiny shoes by stepping in the dog crap which littered the streets.

Meanwhile, the van was moving slowly, keeping a minimum of one hundred yards away from its target at all times to avoid the vague possibility that it may be spotted. Although that possibility was highly unlikely as big black cars in London are as easy to distinguish as one member of a boy band from another. The driver was a heavily built man, slightly shorter than average, but anything he lacked height-wise however was most definitely made up for by his huge width. His head was bald, he was dressed all in black- optimistically choosing to only wear a thin polo shirt, even though the weather outside seemed to be ahead of itself, behaving more like December than October. The only distinguishable feature of this short, fat man, excluding the severely disapproving grimace he wore and his vast number of chins (exceeding that of even the most gifted human-being) was a simple, but equally painful-looking, tattoo on the side of his chubby, bald head. Etched into the man's head, above, and slightly behind, his right ear. Much like a copyright sign is stamped on a plastic doll. It was a pentagon, no more than fifteen mm in width or height, filled in completely black.

In John's hurry he did not see the vehicle, let alone it's hefty driver, he just continued to power walk towards his workplace in an effort not to be late. It only became apparent to him that something was different when he arrived at work to find the clinic was shut. He reached into his pocket and checked the date on his phone, it was most definitely Monday, at least he hadn't completely lost the plot. But, the clinic certainly should not be closed.  
If John had been observant, rather than scowling angrily down at his contacts trying to find someone to ring, he may have noticed the car, which had now been following him for a good thirty minutes, had pulled up on the side of the road less than fifty yards away from him and a man, the width of perhaps two, maybe even three, ordinary sized males had climbed out of the driver's side door and was now waddling (as menacingly as one can waddle) towards Doctor Watson and his closed workplace.  
He peered through the automatic glass doors and found that the inside, although somewhat darker than usual, did not look any different to how it normally did. Except from one, quite important detail: it was deserted.  
The man followed John at a close difference as he wandered around the back of the building, finding the cars belonging to all of his colleagues were parked there as usual.  
Now. John, finally, knew he was in trouble. The car park was full- vehicles were standing empty and alone. The doctor panicked now, where was everyone? Why was no one there? What the hell was going on?  
It was at this moment that the monster of a man finally rounded the corner and revealed himself to John. He moved quickly now, what was once a waddle had morphed into a strange looking canter, charging straight at John, like a bull who had just had a fine red tablecloth waved in his face, reaching the good doctor before he had a chance to react.  
All it took was one accurately trained paw to the temple and Doctor John Watson of 221B Baker Street fell to the floor- unconscious.

***

Sherlock woke late, he'd been up until the early hours of the day 'organising' all of his experiments and specimen's. He had established that there were now too many bottles and beakers and jars full of stuff to only keep them in the kitchen, and John had banned him from leaving anything in the lounge due to the time he left a pickled frog on the coffee table and his flatmate had tripped on the rug and fallen face first into the amphibian, which resulted in an amnesty of all pickled animals and a ban on everything from the room. He decided that the bathroom would suffice as it must be the most sterile place to keep his stuff, and John was asleep so what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him, at least until morning and by then Sherlock could pretend to be asleep until the Doctor had gone off to work.  
During his late-night reorganise, Sherlock thought a lot about his flat mate, a topic which, much to Sherlock's vexation, seemed to trouble his brain a great deal more often than he would have liked.  
What he knew was that he had never been as close to anyone in his life as he was to John. John was his rock, the only thing which helped him through sleepless nights was the idea that there was someone, a real person, out there who genuinely gave a damn about his well-being; apart from Mycroft, but he had a strange way of showing, plus he was family so he didn't really get a choice in the matter.

Sherlock knew he probably spent too much time thinking about his relationship with his flatmate and what said relationship was actually classed as. He was certain that they weren't dating, but at the same time he was just as certain that he was so much closer to the man than he had ever been to anyone, of either gender, that he had met before.  
Sherlock knew that anything which John wanted, he would be there to give, in whatever nature that may be. He had never given any thought to the idea of any kind of sexual relationship with another human-being, at least not before John. So he wasn't really sure what he would class his 'orientation' as, or if, indeed he really had one. He did know, however, that if what made John happy was the idea of Sherlock being, for want of a better term, 'his to do whatever he wanted with' then Sherlock Holmes thought that he could probably deal with this. Who knows, he thought, it might even be enjoyable.  
But at that moment, too early to be classed truly as morning but yet too late to be classed as night, Sherlock still, despite all his best efforts, did not know what to do. Sherlock loved John. He could definitely be sure of that. The extent of this love he was not yet sure of, and he wasn't quite sure on the type of experiment he could use to test the extent yet either.  
By the time he finally emerged from his cave the day was in full flow, large amounts of traffic was rushing passed outside, everything seemed pretty ordinary and intensely boring. 'Work' had been pretty quiet for Sherlock recently, most murderers and terrorists had not been getting creative, so many cases were simple enough for the Met. to solve. It was nearly two weeks since he last received a phone call from Lestrade requesting his help, and even that had been an easy case, the criminal was in custody less than 12 hours after Sherlock first laid eyes on the case file. So this morning, as with every morning since then, Sherlock was bored. He realised that since his night-time tidy, he had completely run out of things to do: no cases, all specimen's were in a suitable place, nobody was trying to kill him- dull.  
Surprisingly soon it was evening, Sherlock had spent his day wasting time, shooting stuff, the usual. John would be home soon, thought Sherlock, startling himself in the realisation that his company was always nice to have. This was another thing which always surprised Sherlock, before his flatmate the idea of living with someone else seemed like the worst thing imaginable. But now, he couldn't imagine a life without his jumpered friend.  
He slumped down heavily on the sofa, flicked through the channels on the TV and decided that nothing which was showing deserved his attention so he quickly switched off and curled up in a ball, tucking his knees under his chin and burrowed himself in to the corner, waiting.  
The man must have dozed off, or entered a very deep day dream, because the next time he checked the clock two hours had passed and it was 8 30. Had John come home yet? Surely not, he would have most definitely noticed another presence in the flat. On the other hand though, his flatmate should have been home by now. Maybe he'd gone out for a drink with some colleagues. Sherlock slowly wandered over to his phone which was sat on his desk, he pressed down on the button, lighting up the screen. No new messages. Why am I even checking this? He knew that John had absolutely no reason to check in with Sherlock before doing something, he was a grown man and could look after himself.  
Time passed that evening and the lanky dark haired man tried to keep his mind from John. By the time it reached 11 pm Sherlock had played his violin, read a book, smoked an unhealthy amount of tobacco and checked his phone well over a hundred times. He had come to the conclusion that John must have gone out for a drink, picked up a rather tipsy young woman and gone back to her place. He probably wouldn't come home and it wasn't worth waiting up for him because what would he say? “So, have fun last night?” too unlike him “What was her name?” John would know he didn't care “Nice of you to call” far far to needy. So, Sherlock decided John could sod off out of his brain and leave him to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

John awoke painfully for the first time after he was knocked unconscious. His attention automatically drawn to the thunderous pain radiating from his forehead. He gasped at the pain, his vision starting to disappear again. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply trying to maintain his consciousness. After sometime his head began to clear and he was able to look round at his surroundings.  
He was in an empty room. No windows, one door. No way of even estimating how long he had been knocked-out. The walls were painted a dull cream and there was a distinct smell of uncleanliness leaking out of them. There was no carpet on the floor, only a cheap-looking Persian rug which was far too small to be of any benefit. John had been placed in the centre of the room on a rather unstable wooden dining chair, which rocked dubiously as he looked around. His hands were bound behind his back with some kind of black electrical tape, the type which sticks to everything and doesn't stretch or break with out scissors, it was already digging in to his skin and was certain to be leaving rather unpleasant red-raw marks on his wrists. John had no idea how long he had been unconscious for and so he also had absolutely no clue about the length of time he had already been stuck in this shabby box-like room. As far as he knew, it could well have been a day since he was taken, or it could have only been an hour. He had no idea.  
John's mind began to ponder why on earth he was there- wherever 'there' was- as far as he was aware he hadn't done anything worthy of getting himself onto anybody's hit list. After spending a relatively long, yet unidentified, length of time thinking about the subject- weighing up all of his sins to try and narrow down anything which may have caused him to land in this situation. It hit him. HE hadn't done anything wrong, because they had got hold of him already and he was still breathing. If he had been the target then he would already have been eliminated.  
No, this must be personal. They (whoever 'they' were) must be using him to hurt someone else. He was a prisoner so that he, maybe, could be used as a ransom: 'Give us what we want or we'll kill the man you love and all of his friends'. John groaned, both internally and externally at the same time: Internally because he had been stupid enough to get himself kidnapped and he was now useless to whosoever had got themselves in to trouble- someone who loved him. Externally he groaned because he had now realised that when he was knocked out he had hit the ground with some force; now one whole half of his body was throbbing and aching horribly.  
John must have fallen into an uncomfortable semi-conscious state, because when the man unlocked the door he awoke with a start. This was a different man to the one who had been in charge of picking him up. If he had been any other situation John would have laughed at how spectacularly different this man looked to the other whom he had met. His captor was an exceptionally tall man, standing at least six and a half feet high, on top of this, he was unhealthily skinny. John understood why the other of the two was chosen to actually do the kidnapping, this man looked like any small amount of brute force would break him cleanly in two.  
At first the two men were in silence, John decided it wasn't worth trying any of the usual “Why am I here?” “Who do you work for?” crap, that was most certainly not going to help him to stay alive.  
The tall man finally spoke, after he'd given John a good staring over. “You John Watson?” He said gruffly, his voice was much deeper than John had estimated. The Doctor nodded his aching head in response, deciding that this man was not worth speaking to. “D'you know why you're here?” John responded with an exaggerated shake of his head. “S'not really worth me telling you anything though is it? Nothing you can do about your little-” he paused, obviously enjoying winding John up as a look of superiority spread over his face “-situation, is there?”  
The man laughed a deep gravelly laugh as he said this, contorting his face into an ugly grin, bearing his rotting, yellowed teeth; immediately John complimented himself for never becoming a smoker, the man's mouth looked like it had come straight from the image on the front of a cigarette package. He was also reminded that (once out of this problem) he needed to convince Sherlock to kick his disgusting habit. John already hated this man (the feeling was quite obviously mutual judging by the disgust in the man's eyes when he looked at John), and obviously he wasn't going to reveal what on earth was going on, so John pointed his head down at his feet, not allowing the man the grace to see that already he was making the Doctor John Watson want to use the chair he was tied to to attack his captor.  
The man left shortly after John had started paying detailed attention to his brown, size nine, leather brogues; but not before approaching John, gripping a pair of scissors in his hand. As he reached towards John, grinning at the resulting flinch he earned from the doctor, the cuff on his long sleeved white shirt moved up slightly, revealing a dark, inky mark. A five-sided shape. The man had removed a section of John's hair, chuckling as he did so before turning on his heels and marching from the room.

Time passed and John went back to mulling over the topic which was currently troubling his mind the most: who had put him here. John had come to the conclusion that there were three possibilities for the reason behind his situation:  
1) John had accidentally gone out, drunk too much alcohol and slept with a woman who happened to be also dating the leader of a gang- possible, but unlikely.  
2) He was just unlucky, in the wrong place at the wrong time- difficult to believe because his captors knew who he was.  
3) Someone he cared about had made a mighty-fine cock up of something- his most believable conclusion.  
Even after thinking through all of these possibilities and deciding on the latter reason, John was still unsure as to who it could have been close enough to him so that he would be the first point of call when it came to kidnap and ransom. He contemplated a long time on this quandary; finally deciding on two possible people. The first was Harry, his sister, who had many problems with all kinds of things in the past. They definitely shared a deep connection and had always looked out for each other since they were young. It was possible that she had gone too far this time, tried to screw over the wrong people, and failed miserably. But deep down John knew that it couldn't be his sibling, yes they were close, but she had recently begun to sort her life out; this time it actually seemed to be working as well, she'd kicked the drinking habit and was finally beginning to travel down the straight and narrow. The second option John found himself thinking of was Sherlock. His flatmate certainly had a habit of pissing people off and definitely was not popular with anyone, especially the type of gentlemen John had encountered today.  
This theory all seemed to fit well into place, the jigsaw John had created in his brain was all slotting together, all apart from one, crucial piece. Love.  
John figured out that it must be someone who cares for him, someone closer to him than to anyone else in the whole world; but that couldn't be right. Sherlock didn't love, John was unsure whether the consulting detective even felt emotions. Especially not towards him. The Doctor and his flatmate had been good friends since the moment they'd met, that much was true. There was something special about that man, with his thick, dark, unruly hair and pale skin. He was, to most people, an unusual looking fellow; but John had never met a man more beautiful in his entire life. Yet he Sherlock had never expressed any feelings of love or romance towards him, he hadn't really treated him much different to any other person- excluding those who he despised. On rare occasion he would pay John a compliment, but that was usually when he was after something, or when he had previously offended the doctor.  
Maybe he was thinking too deeply into his situation, maybe he had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. This would be a far more convenient option- to believe that in fact Sherlock had nothing to do with it, that love wasn't an ingredient in this ridiculous recipe. Sherlock couldn't love him, John was so, so normal. Sherlock was one of a kind, he would never settle for someone so average- or under average in terms of height. Surely?  
The good doctor had his fair share of lovers, girlfriends, partners, over the years but never one with whom he'd felt an instant click. Never had he met a woman and straight away thought 'You, are perfect'. He was sure those three words had slipped out of his mouth on many an occasion as a lusty attempt to make a woman feel comfortable, make a woman consent to a night of blissful, often alcohol-fueled, passion, but it had never really meant more than 'I'm not a jerk, have sex with me'. The only person he'd ever felt any kind of instant connection with, was Sherlock. The man fascinated him, he was so beautiful to watch at work. The way he deduced a situation from the type of mud on the sole of the left Dr Marten's boot in the porch made every other human on the planet roll their eyes or “tut”, but every time John was left dumbstruck, with a stupid smile on his face.  
Men had never really been considered an option by John before, it wasn't that he didn't find them attractive, it was more that he had never allowed himself the chance to. He was a complete novice when it came to that side of the love spectrum (excluding the times he had clicked on a link and up had popped an unexpected image), he had lots of experience with pleasuring women and being pleasured by them, but doing those types of things to a man would be a whole new skill.  
Damn. He couldn't cope with this. All the uncertainty, the unexplained feelings, the strange fluttering feeling he now felt in his stomach when he thought of his flatmate. The intense difficulty he was experiencing, trying to erase an inappropriate image of Sherlock in that smouldering purple shirt and nothing else but some very discrete white underpants. To make matters a thousand times worse: John was trapped, Sherlock was oblivious and the room smelt absolutely disgusting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, thank you for reading! As this is my first published fic any comments on improvements or anything are really very welcome. I aim to update every two weeks, but it could be slightly long due to college etc. Thank you so much!


	3. Chapter 3

It was another two days until Sherlock finally realised something was very wrong. Obviously, a lack of John in the flat had been strange, but Sherlock just assumed that John had gone away for a few days and that he hadn't been listening when he was told. Mainly he ignored his absence in the hope that he would be able to rid thoughts of the doctor from his brain. This was failing majorly. The total lack of communication was proving a struggle for the Consulting Detective, in the days before John he had been able to go without any contact with another human for weeks, but he found himself constantly checking his phone for a sign that he had not been forgotten by his beloved flatmate.  
On the second of these two days Sherlock once again had been doing very little: spending time practicing his violin and checking on experiments but not doing much more.   
It was a bitterly cold afternoon when Sherlock received the first of the messages. A tiny, battered scrap of paper had been pushed under the door and lay on the flat's doormat. Sherlock was surprised that he had not noticed it's arrival, but blamed the forte section of that last violin sonata for the deliverers smooth escape. Sherlock gripped the scrap between this fore and middle fingers examining it closely, trying to deduce as much about the sender as possible (and discovering very little, other than the type latex glove used to deliver it), before finally pealing it open. Gently unfolding the scrap, Sherlock discovered there were two words printed on the inside, written using a typewriter.   
Missing something? The scrap of paper asked him. As he had unfolded the last crease Sherlock had been gripped with a terrible fear, one which he had never felt before. As out of the paper had fallen a lock of hair, no more than two inches long, grey-blonde in colour. The exact match of his flatmates.  
The squared letters stared blankly up at him as the detective began to panic. How could he have been so stupid? He'd spent the past days being thankful that John wasn't there because he wasn't sure that, if he were present, he would be able to prevent himself from making a total idiot of himself. When all along John had been trapped somewhere, or worse. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to think about the latter possibility, even the mere suggestion of it made him feel sick.  
“Damn it Sherlock, you're behaving like a normal human.” He muttered to himself, trying to find some composure. Now what.  
“Okay” he breathed, trying to maintain a steady heart rate. He focused all of his energy on the tiny scrap he held in his palm. Typewriter scroll. Slightly thicker than usual.130 microns.  
Bringing the paper up to his nose, he sniffed, gathering more information. Ink is dry. Typed more than 4 hours ago. Slight blurring of the letters suggests a new cartridge. More notes to come?  
Paper smells musty. Not new. Been kept in storage for a while. No notes written previously?   
Specific smell. Seems familiar, yet unpleasant. Dust? More than just dust. He sniffed again, this time concentrating on the parchment rather than the ink. Hint of tobacco cigar smoke. Relatively cheap. Nothing special. Available from supermarkets. Brand: Royal Dutch. Wants to look impressive but does not want to travel. Business man?  
Ability to use typewriter implies old age. Or, again, trying to look impressive.  
Turning the paper over he noticed one, tiny, yet confusing, detail: in one of the torn corners of the parchment. What looked like a petite ink smudge; but, on closer inspection, turned out to be a pentagon, filled in black.

Many hours of pacing followed. Sherlock marched up and down in the kitchen of 221B trying to come up with a plan. His, usually meticulously organised, brain was a mess, he had no control over his thoughts, all he could imagine was John stuck somewhere in the dark, alone, possibly injured. He shivered and shook his head, angrily ruffling his messy brown curls.  
“For John's sake Sherlock, pull yourself together” said the sensible voice at the back of the detective's head “you're never going to help him if you don't do something.”  
“What can I do?” Sherlock shouted at himself “I am the smartest fucking man in the whole country and what the hell can I do? Nothing. Sherlock Holmes you are useless.”  
Slumping in his chair the detective sighed deeply, hating the tears that were threatening this eyes, every ounce of hate he had for himself- which he thought he had long since buried in his mind- was swimming eagerly in front of him, taunting him.   
For a while he sat there, not quite crying, almost drowning in all the emotions he had kept locked away for so long: how much John meant to him; how disgusted he felt by himself; how pointless his existence seemed if he couldn't help out his best friend -his only friend- the one time that he actually needed him. When gradually, from within his pit of negativity, Sherlock began to hear another voice, one which wasn't joining in with the others shouting hate at him. This voice was warm, comforting and familiar “Hey Sherlock” it said “You're never going to sort this all out if you let these shits get to you” It was beginning to drown out the negative voices: “I believe in you Sherlock Holmes, sometimes you just need to have patience.”   
Of course, he voice that Sherlock heard and the image which he saw in his mind was of John. His John. Who stuck by him when no one else would, the only person who had seen the real Sherlock Holmes; the timid man, hidden under layer upon layer of harshness and cynicism, the man who felt scared and alone. The detective, all of a sudden felt full of a new hope, after all it was John who needed him and for John he would do anything.  
The detective allowed himself to take a long shower after this,he stood under the spray as the, almost too hot, water poured over him. Knowing that there was nothing that he could currently do was the worst feeling, Sherlock was always in control of himself and of his emotions and the fact that at this moment he had no grip on himself was scaring him. No, he was more than scared. He was terrified. 

***  
John was tired. Every time he began to drift off into an uncomfortable subconscious he was brought tumbling back into reality when his head slumped forward jolting him awake with a start. He was well aware that by now he most probably smelled awful,obviously he remained unaware of how long he had been stuck in this room but he was well aware that the room was very humid and even his trusty antiperspirant couldn't keep him fresh for that long. One thing John took great pride in was his cleanliness. He had spent enough time living in the dirt and dust of Afghanistan to appreciate the various products offered to him in London and now his freedom to shower and preen himself whenever he desired had been taken away. He sighed deeply looking once again around the room in which he was being held, the more time he spent in there the more he noticed how unpleasant it was. The paint was beginning to peel away from the ceiling in one corner, occasionally a piece would flake off, floating down until it landed on the floor. One thing which John had established about his captors since being stuck in this room was that for whatever plan they had the needed him to be alive and well. Every so often the skinny man would come in and deliver unto him a couple of slices of dry brown bread covered with a thin layer of "I can't believe it's not butter" spread. The man would force the food down the doctor's throat with an unpleasant grin on his face. This would be followed by a glass of stale water, also forced down him, before he was allowed to use the gruesomely unclean bathroom and once again was bound to the chair and locked in to the room.  
It occurred to him when he sat alone, what could have been one evening, Sherlock must now know that he was here. Or at least that he was not at home, in their flat, sat comfortably reading the newspaper, cup of tea in hand. The man had cut some hair from his scalp, quite early on in his entrapment, John had seen enough cases and read enough novels to know that there was only really one reason why he would have done this. Bait. They must have sent some kind of message to his flatmate, letting him know that they had John, maybe suggesting to him some kind of deal, a bargain. The hair would have been to help things along their way, proof that they did in fact have John and were not just trying to trick the great consulting detective. Not that anyone could ever do that. If this was the case however, why had Sherlock not saved him? why was he still there? His brother practically is the British government, surely it wouldn't take much time out of his busy schedule to save someone from a couple of dickheads. Then again perhaps Sherlock just didn't care. Maybe he had noticed that John had gone, he had received a note from his captors and thought to himself “Oh good. Peace and Quiet, finally”.   
No, Sherlock wouldn't, he did care for John, even if he had a stupid way of showing it. He would help him as soon as he could, maybe he just hadn't thought of a way to find him yet.   
Being left alone was having a negative effect on John, he had nothing to do apart from dwell on his thoughts and that one tiny thought had found a place to rest deep inside him. No matter how many times he told himself that he was being stupid. That thought had settled down and was slowly beginning to grow roots. John Watson was scared, and he was beginning to doubt every solid piece of information he had inside his brain. Before long he was crumbling under the weight of his worries, afraid of the questions his mind was whispering to him, even more afraid that they might be true. Maybe Sherlock didn't care. Maybe John had just been obsessing over this man, his great friend, when actually the feelings of joy and warmth which the doctor felt around him were not mutual. Maybe he was just stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello and thank you for reading! I really hope you're enjoying this, any help and comments would be very welcome.  
> I'm sorry for the delay on this chapter but my whole entire life has been devoted to AS level music technology in the last week!  
> Oh yes, just one final thing, I wanted to thank my glorious beta (yourlittlestbird.tumblr.com) for really helping me out and just generally being great.  
> Yes, once again thank you for reading. (Is a smiley face to eager? I don't know, so consider this a metaphorical smiley face)


	4. Chapter 4

The next day when Sherlock awoke, after a horrific one hour of sleep, putting on his dressing gown he stumbled into the kitchen of 221B. Running his hands through the thick dark curls of his hair, he sighed loudly. It was quiet and he didn't like it.  
He strolled over to the kettle and made himself a strong black coffee. Holding the mug tightly between both of his hands he looked around the flat. It didn't seem like the home he had grown to love without his flatmate there, but hopefully it wouldn't be like it for too much longer. As he thought this he heard the sound of slippers shuffling up the stairs. Before long, the voice of Mrs Hudson was echoing from the hallway. “Sherlock, there's a letter here for you” she said “a nice young man just came and dropped it off.”  
Placing his mug down on the coffee table, Sherlock opened the door and was greeted by the familiar little woman who stood before him. “Thank you Mrs Hudson.” he replied, taking the letter and retreating back in to the flat once more to avoid being stuck in conversation about Mrs Jones and her cat's dodgy knee.  
Sherlock was well aware of the contents of the letter before he even opened it, he recognised it's texture and colour almost immediately. Another message from John's captors. The only noticeable difference in the initial appearance of the letter was that it had been sealed with melted black wax. With a slender finger Sherlock traced the shape which had been stamped into it, counting each of it's five sides- was this a clue? For the meantime this stamp meant absolutely nothing to the detective, but the information had been stored somewhere in the far reaches of his mind.. He inhaled and exhaled deeply trying to gather his thoughts before finally peeling the paper open. He was greeted by a set of small letters, the same font as before, but this time the message was different. “I bet you're lonely without him.” the paper sneered at him “But can you work it out?” the letter continued “Do you know who we are? Why we have him? I bet you don't and I bet that gets to you, doesn't it?” The semi-positive mood which Sherlock had been in was completely shattered by this second message, the letters swam in front of him and a feeling of dread dropped like a stone in the pit of his stomach. He stared at the letter, having no clue what to do. “This is it,” he thought, “I am going to be alone unless I sort this out, I'll never get John back.”  
He stalked over to the sofa and plonked himself down. Slowly, Sherlock tried to gain some composure and he allowed himself to wander into his mind palace. He strolled the rooms and found the place where all of the John information is stored. It was a simple room, but comfortable, the room's main feature was a small fireplace in front of which stood a leather arm chair. Nothing about the room was in your face, much like the man whom Sherlock cared so much for. As he entered, his mind was filled with warmth and happiness, he felt a smile creeping it's way onto his face but quickly he wiped it away, now information began to flow into his mind: John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, likes oatmeal jumpers, tea drinker, difficult relationship with his sister, dog person, no known enemies, protective of his friends, psychosomatic limp, nothing out of the ordinary, no known current romantic or sexual relationship. No problems. He has done nothing wrong. Sherlock walked out of the John room and found the place he went to think, a plainly decorated square room with one chair in the centre, he sat down. If it isn't John's fault, then who's fault is it? Why is he there? Where is there?  
He could have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but why would they be messaging me? If that was the case then they wouldn't know who he was, would they? No they wouldn't, so he must have been taken on purpose because they knew who I am. Dammit. It's my fault.  
Sherlock withdrew himself from his mind palace, three remaining ideas swimming around his head- It isn't John's fault, he must have been taken on purpose, it's my fault.

 

At some point John must have dosed off because he awoke with a start when the door burst open and, to John's drowsy surprise, both of the men he had previously encountered walked in. The two men were the complete opposite of each other, however, both were dressed all in black and as John played close attention to the pair he noticed that the same inky stain he noticed on the wrist of the tall man had been imprinted on the side of the fatter man's head. John assumed this was of some importance but the information on why had passed him by. The larger of the two men slammed the door after himself before taking his place beside his companion. For a while, they stood there, arms crossed, legs slightly apart, just watching John where he sat. Then, at the same time, they began to chuckle. The two men's laughs rang out if fearful harmony, the sound reverberated from the walls and it felt as if John was being mocked from all angles. After the pair had finished they returned to silence, after some time the quiet was broken by the stick-thin man.  
“Well, he isn't here is he?” the man slurred, John immediately thought of Sherlock “Where is he then, your little friend?” he grinned as he uttered the last word, almost implying that there was something else going on, which of course, John could not let himself think about again.  
They returned to the silence, until it was the fat man's turn to speak. His voice was rough and scratchy, obviously the result of too many cigars. “Come on then boy” he snarled, patronising John, the elephant sized man reached in to his pocket, bringing out a camera phone “Smile for the camera” he rasped before setting to work taking snap after snap until he had a picture of John from almost every angle. “These will do just fine” he said whilst he flicked through the images “I do hope Mr Holmes likes his man all tided up.”. Those last few comments had thrown John over the edge and his blood began to boil in his veins. How dare he say those things about him and Sherlock? How fucking dare he? He knew nothing about their relationship, no matter how non-existent is it. John felt himself go red in the face, but just before he did anything which he would regret both men turned on their heels as the taller one said “Well must dash, it's an awfully busy life blackmailing the worlds only consulting detective.”  
As the door slammed behind them John could no longer help himself, he was so insanely angry at everything, he hated himself, he hated those men and he hated the way he was missing his flatmate so fucking much. He had to do something, but there was nothing he could do but sit there and stamp his feet into the hard concrete floor and fiddle with the tape that was binding his hands until his ankles ached and he was sure that his wrists would be red raw.

 

It was later that evening when the second letter of the day found it's way into 221B, Sherlock had been sat on the couch lost in thought when the USB stick came flying in through the flat's open window. It clattered onto the floor and Sherlock rejoined reality with a start. Cautiously he picked up the device, which was matte black, he thought about checking it for fingerprints but given how thorough John's captors had been previously it didn't seem worth it. Attached to stick was a note, typed on the same parchment as both times before, it read: “Clever, clever detective, enjoy.”  
Some what confused by the message, Sherlock reached over to his laptop, setting it down on his legs, he touched the mouse-pad bringing it back to life, and plugged the USB in. Without him clicking anything a slide show presentation began to play. “Do you miss him Mr Holmes?” the screen asked him “I just assume you know who I'm talking about” it continued “but I, so lovingly, prepared this slide show just in case you needed to refresh your memory...”  
Sherlock stared at the screen in horror at the images which followed, picture upon picture of John, his John, tided to a chair looking malnourished and, quite frankly, awful. Emotion began to fill up inside Sherlock once again, he felt tears form in his eyes and he willed them away to no end. In a fit of distress he slammed the laptop shut and ran up the stairs to his room trying to get as far away from the laptop as possible. Once inside he threw himself face down onto the covers and allowed the emotion to pour out into his pillow. “Shit, shit, shit, shit.” he mumbled to himself over and over, the images of John seemed to have been burnt into his retinas. Whenever he shut his eyes there he was, being mocked but some unknown enemy.  
Sherlock stayed in this position on his bed until he eventually slipped into an uncomfortable subconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I'm really sorry it took so long to update, I feel I should justify that college unfortunately needs my attention and yah, sorry, I'll try and be quicker with the next one but I cannot guarantee anything. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> ~note added 20th May~  
> Hello hi, I'm really sorry to anyone who is following the story, but I won't be able to update until after the 3rd of June due to AS levels and me not wanting to screw up. I haven't give up on the story at all and thanks for reading- just thought you ought to know


	5. Chapter 5

Mr R Carruthers sat in his fifth-floor executive office, elbows resting on the arms of his leather desk chair gently turning himself side to side contemplating the progress of the plan thus far. He had been right to entrust the messy part of the job into the hands of the Williamson brothers, the pair were subtle enough to go unnoticed by the public but obvious enough to have an impact on their captive. He smiled an unpleasantly satisfied smile as he thought about the havoc he was playing in the lives of two of the nation's favourite busybodies. He sighed contentedly, saying to himself “Holmes and Watson; the names will fit nicely on my list”. His mind turned to thoughts of all past, so called 'celebrities' which he had taken great joy in humiliating and messing with. He smiled, and now his biggest challenge, the great Sherlock Holmes. Well, he wasn't proving half as difficult, or as entertaining, as he had thought. It was a shame really, he thought to himself, it could have been a lot of fun.  
For a few minutes he sat, in his position, fingers tucked under his chin, slowly turning himself, as he watched his overly expensive, pointed dress shoes. His mind was elsewhere on thoughts of meddling and destruction. After a short while he decided that it was time he contacted Mr Holmes. Stretching out his long, slender legs, he stood, before marching over to his filing cabinet and bringing out a piece of brown, tea-stained paper. He put it down on his desk before bringing his typewriter out of its box and placing next to the paper. It was a precious machine which he had inherited from his grandfather, sleek black edged with gold, an elegant rose had been hand painted onto its cover. When he had first received it, it had been of no use to him and he left it in its box in a cupboard where it gradually gathered dust. Then, at the age of twenty, he had found enlightenment and the typewriter was put to good use, making his escapades much more dramatic.  
Carruthers had spent a great deal of time over the last few days of his project trying to think of a way to contact his most complex victim and finally he had decided, they must meet up. This eventually happened with all of his victims. But why should he make it easy for the detective? If he really was as great as they say then he should easily be able to work out the location from a riddle.   
Carruthers smiled to himself, chuckling at his own genius, muttering as he set to work on the message, testing wordings and phrases.

***

Sherlock was giving up hope. Without John everything he did was pointless, and the temptation to dive deep into old habits was getting worse by the day. “Think of John” he told himself when he was at his lowest points “he wouldn't want you to fall so far backwards because of him”. The other half of Sherlock's conscious was not so thoughtful: “It'll help” this half shouted at him, “John isn't here, he will never know”. But John always knew, he had always been able to detect Sherlock's emotions in a way that nobody else could: he knew when Sherlock was happy, and when he needed the company because, even though he was being a complete arse-hole, without it he would rekindle his addiction.  
By this time it had been nearly a week since John had first disappeared, and the detective was closer to making the call to a “friend” than he had been since he had returned from rehab. His usually impeccable appearance had gone, he hadn't changed from his dressing gown in over two days and stubble had begun to sprout from his chin, which, if he were feeling himself, he would never have allowed. He had no idea what to do, so he stuck to reading, and occasionally just pacing around the 'John' room in his mind palace for hours on end.  
He was in the middle of one of these day-dreams, completely out of touch with reality, when another letter found it's way to him. The deliverer must have almost walked into the flat because the detective, who was lying face-down on the couch, was brought back to this world when the letter, which this time had some weight to it, was thrown at him and landed on the small of his back. Sherlock jumped up from where he was lying and ran to the hallway to try and catch the deliverer, but he was too slow and as he left the sitting room, he heard the front door slamming and the sound of heavy footsteps on the concrete outside. Disappointed, he returned to the letter, which had fallen to the floor in Sherlock's rush. It was definitely heavier than the previous letters had been. Gently, he peeled it open; as he pulled out the familiar parchment, three bronze coins felt out into the palm of his hand. Looking at the coins more closely he found that they were blank, so from this alone they could not be traced, but it must be a clue. For now he returned the coins to the envelope, which he folded up neatly, and turned his attention to the letter.  
The time has come, it began,are you really as clever as they say Sherlock Holmes?  
“When the hour strikes thirteen, the train side tap house I will be, then, perhaps, you'll see your John, to sing another of their songs.  
If, from this, you prove your brains, maybe you have earned your name. I'll meet you there, but don't be late, I shall be waiting by the gate."  
Sherlock reread the words three times (even though the information had been absorbed in his first reading). Usually Sherlock loved solving riddles, but the pressure on him to solve the mystery was almost overwhelming. He glanced down at the watch on his slender wrist: ten forty-five; he had two hours and fifteen minutes in which to solve the riddle, assuming that it meant the thirteenth hour of today; reach the destination and save John.  
"Okay Sherlock," he said to himself "let's do this, for John"

He set about separating each section of the information so that each could be processed individually in his mind palace: train side tap house must be referring to a public house beside a railway; by the gate was pretty self-explanatory; it was the pennies and "another of their songs" which was causing the majority of his confusion. He tried to think of music which both he and John enjoyed, but Sherlock was only really a fan of Classical (and Kansas when no one was listening). John on the other hand,enjoyed any music which he felt 'didn't get enough credit' or that 'somebody ought to listen to'.  
The thoughts of John and his ridiculous CD collection brought a smile to Sherlock's face; there were many times Sherlock would come home to find John singing along terribly to some band which nobody had ever heard of (until he put on the album loud enough for the whole of Baker Street to hear). He allowed himself to sit for a while; filled with the warmth which John brought him, eventually his mind wandered onto the time when they had been 'spring cleaning' 221B:  
It had been a bright April morning, still cold outside but from the safety of indoors you could pretend it was warm, John had been threatening to make Sherlock clean for months now but the detective had never thought the time would really come.  
"Come along Sherlock!" John had shouted at him through his bedroom door " I know you never sleep, you stupid arse-hole!" he'd laughed "Don't think you can get away with this." He had then flung the door of Sherlock's room open to find Sherlock trying his hardest to look like he was sleeping.  
" You are a complete idiot" John had whispered into his ear, before deciding to tickle Sherlock under the nose with a feather duster. The detective burst into a fit of, unbelievably adorable, sneezes before grabbing a pillow and seeking revenge.  
The day had turned out to be one of Sherlock's favourite memories with John; they'd laughed and joked like teenagers and John had found one of his old The Beatles shirts- which had caused Sherlock to laugh at him saying "Far too mainstream John! You're obviously not the man I thought I knew" before he admitted that he did in fact have the entire Beatles collection hidden behind the various experiments under his bed. Of course they had then spent the rest of the day singing horribly loudly to Penny Lane amongst other songs- hang on, Penny Lane! "To sing another of their songs"? Of course! Finally the pieces of the puzzle began to slot together, with the aid of Sherlock's (until now) useless Beatles knowledge. There is no way John's captor could expect him to reach the real Penny Lane in, he checked his watch again, one hour and fifteen minutes. So it must be the other one. Although unknown by many people, the music video for Penny Lane had been recorded not on the Lane itself, but in the East End of London, a place called Angel Lane. Once again, Sherlock consulted his mind palace, bringing up his London map; sure enough he found that on Angel Lane there was a "Railway Tavern". It would take him a while to reach there and the taxi would be expensive but he worked it out; he could save John.

It took over an hour for Sherlock to make it to Angel Lane, despite it being only a thirty minute journey. Firstly, he had seen how badly he had let his appearance slip, so before leaving allowed himself time to shower and shave. Then, no taxi would stop for him; every set of lights turned red, almost as if they had seen the detective coming; the taxi driver had gotten lost and eventually Sherlock gave up and walked the rest of the way. When he arrived at the end of the shabby street he was disappointed to see how unpleasant the place looked. As he walked slowly down the road, as he still had about fifteen minutes to spare. The dirty windows, edged with peeling sills, peered down at him, watching him go by. He shivered and hoped that John was not trapped inside one of these buildings. He did consider knocking on doors, or jumping through windows, in the hope that he may find the man he cared so much for inside but then he remembered that he had been given a chance to see John again and if he blew it, he may lose him forever.  
Finally, he reached the high walls surrounding the Railway Tavern. Tightening his deep blue scarf and pulling up the collar of his long coat, he reached, with a gloved hand,for the rusty latch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi thanks for reading: just so you know, R Carruthers is in fact a character from the Arthur Conan-Doyle story "The Solitary Cyclist" and Angel Lane in London is also the place where the Penny Lane video was recorded.  
> I hope you enjoyed comment with any improvements, thanks!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some mild violence in this chapter, it wasn't intentional but it just kind of happened, sorry! I promise there will be a happy ending.   
> All comments are welcome, I hope you enjoy.

The gate creaked open to reveal the tavern's garden, the place was surprisingly busy considering the time and the establishments shabby exterior. Shutting the gate behind him Sherlock glanced at the crowd trying to deduce who could be the person he was looking for (the one who had stolen the only person whom he truly cared for); no one seemed to quite fit the composition he expected, all were too drunken or unable to cope with the demands of everyday life to be mixed up in this. Just as the detective was thinking of giving up, seething that he had been deceived, a hand grabbed his upper arm, Sherlock tried to mask his surprise.  
"Mr Holmes," said the owner of the arm from behind him, his voice was sickly soft like velvet. "You're almost late."  
Sherlock turned to face his rival. He was shorter than he had imagined, well dressed in a smart, well-tailored, coal black blazer and lavender shirt, with no tie (which told the detective he was trying to appear approachable but still enforce some degree of authority). On his feet were smart, well polished dress shoes which peeped out from his also well-tailored black suit trousers. He was clean-shaven and balding, although most evidence of his once ginger, hair had been closely shaven off. This man was professional, and obviously his appearance played a key part in his work.  
"I don't like to be kept waiting, Mr Holmes, I am a very busy man" he purred  
"Come on then," Sherlock said, trying to keep his baritone as even as possible (although to him, it sounded strangled and unrecognisable) "What is it that you have to tell me? I solved your stupid riddle so let's get on with it."  
"Don't pretend that you didn't enjoy it," he smiled "and don't talk to me like you're the one with the upper hand. I'm the one on top here; I'm winning this game of ours so far."  
He waved his arm, gesturing to an empty table in the pub garden, up in the corner far from the other drinkers; obediently Sherlock sat down why bother pissing him off, John is more important that my ego he thought to himself.  
The man reached into the pocket of his blazer, bringing out a pack of Royal Dutch Cigars "Want one?" he mumbled, whilst holding one cigar between his lips and passing the packet in Sherlock's direction.  
The detective gratefully accepted, although he hated the taste of cigars, any kind of nicotine would be useful to him right now- in all of his haste he had forgotten about his addiction until now. John would have been more proud of him if he turned the offer down but he would never find out.  
The cigar between his fingers brought some comfort to him, the smell of the smoke calming him down, giving him confidence. They didn't taste half as bad as he remembered.  
The two sat in silence for a short while, shrouded in the smoke.  
"So then, Mr Holmes," the man drawled "I just realised I never introduced myself, how rude of me." he smiled at nothing in particular "My name is Mr R Carruthers, and I am your worst enemy."  
"I can assure you I've fried much bigger fish than you before." The detective grimaced, letting smoke roll gracefully out of his perfect mouth.  
Mr Carruthers scoffed. "That may be, boy, but have any of these fish that you speak of had you coming to them for help? Have any of them taken from you your best friend?" He put emphasis on the last word as he said it, trying to attract attention to the relationship which everyone seemed to care so much about. Sherlock had no response for him; he just stared at the cigar as it burnt.  
"You may think you're all upper class with you deductions but let me tell you, you're not the only person who knows how to get inside people's heads; surely you can see that, especially now"  
Still Sherlock had no response to give him and so the man continued.  
"Okay well I'll cut to the chase, I've been having a lot of fun with you, and although you may not like to hear it, we're actually quite similar, you and I. So here it is, if you want your John back then I am willing to let you have him, I have no need for him and I'm sure he'd be much more happy to be back in your loving arms" Sherlock scowled. "But of course, if I just gave him to you then that would be no fun for either of us. So, I'll give you this-" he paused to bring a neatly folded piece of paper out of his pocket "-and three days to find your man, after that I'll assume that you never cared for him in the first place and I was obviously incorrect in my observations and so I shall dispose of him" the corners of his mouth twitched up at this, which made Sherlock's insides turn to lead.  
The detective grabbed the paper from the man, stubbed out his cigar, before shoving them both in opposite pockets of his coat and turning away.  
"The game is on, my friend." he spat at the man as he walked away.  
Carruthers called after him "Remember, boy, it's frustrating working looking after a hostage and who better to take that frustration out on than the man sat in chains".  
Scowling, Sherlock marched out of the pub, slamming the gate behind him. Turning up the collar on his Belstaff, he hailed a taxi, almost screaming "221B Baker Street" at the man behind the wheel. He needed to think, harder than he ever had before. This was John, his John, and he had three days or else he would be the reason for his death and that didn't bear thinking about.  
***

John was uncomfortable. Every muscle in his body was screaming for freedom and what small amount of body fat he had when he was kidnapped, he was sure had left him due to the poor diet of dry bread which he had been living from. He was beginning to wonder if, given the chance to escape, he would even be able to remember how to walk, let alone be able to run. His captors were still visiting him fairly regularly to deliver him "food", although his lack movement and of sleep meant his appetite was shrinking by the day. He had gained no more information from the men since the time when they had taken pictures of him to send to Sherlock- the thought of which made him feel sick. Often his mind returned to thoughts of his flatmate, who must have received the photographs by now. Why had he not been rescued yet? Surely the Great Consulting Detective had not been stumped by these men.  
As the days passed John's mood began to decrease at an exponential rate, he began to hate himself for being so useless, he couldn't remember feeling this low since he had been sent back to England from Afghanistan- of course thinking this meant that his post-traumatic stress disorder, which he had finally gained control over, returned with a vengeance. His nights were becoming even more sleepless, every time he managed to shoo consciousness away he awoke violently, panic holding him in its iron grip. When conscious, he had nothing to keep his mind occupied, thoughts of Sherlock only made him feel more alone, what he wouldn't give to see him pacing around, mumbling to himself, shouting at John to give him his laptop because "mine is too far away". John smiled slightly at the memory, but this soon reminded him of quite how important it turned out that Sherlock is to him and that he might never get the chance to tell him that and his momentary happiness was once more replaced by despair.  
After a short while, John's self-loathing was interrupted as the door burst and he was greeted by an unfamiliar face. This man was shorter than his captors and much more well dressed, he smelled of cigars and his face wore a smug grin- much like the one Sherlock wears when he finally catches someone who's been elusive, but somehow, on this man it was unpleasant rather than endearing.  
"Dr Watson," the man greeted him "How nice it is that we should finally meet." John was confused, which obviously could be read on his face.  
"I suppose I should explain," he shrugged, leaning against the wall opposite John's chair. "My name is Mr R Carruthers and I am the reason you're here."  
Suddenly it clicked in his mind, and he was furious.  
"Well, fuck you Mr Carruther" he responded "You piece of shit."  
On reflection, this probably wasn't the best way for John to have greeted the man who held him captive, but he didn't have much time to think on his actions  
The man chuckled "Aren't you a kind fellow, need I remind you that you're under my control and I will not tolerate that unpleasant language."  
"What the fuck else can you do to me?" John growled in response "You and your dogs are keeping me here like some kind of fucking criminal.”  
The smug grin remained on Carruthers' face "Oh, I'm so glad you asked." he turned towards the door "Bobby!" he shouted "It's time to have some fun..."  
The pair waited in silence for a while, before long the larger of John's two captors came bundling through the door.  
"You called, Boss?" he mumbled.  
"Yes I did Bobby," Carruther's responded "John here has kindly asked 'what the fuck else can we do to him' and I wondered if you would like to demonstrate"  
The doctor was now beginning to really regret his vile mouth, now he really had asked for it.  
"Mmm, of course Sir." the man, now known as Bobby, obeyed, "What would you like me to do to him?"  
"Whatever you fancy, just make sure you leave our mark on him, will you?" John wasn't sure what he meant by this, but he knew that he was about to find out.  
The big man was smiling to himself, obviously thinking of what to do to John, when Carruthers turned back to the doctor:  
"Well,I shall leave you in Bobby's capable hands, I shall visit again shortly, unless your man has come and got you by then" with that, he winked at John before turning and leaving out through the door.  
John was puzzled by the man's last comment, but unfortunately his thoughts were disrupted as Bobby set about his work. He pulled John up from the chair, and finding that his legs wouldn't sustain him, forced him down onto his knees. The man stood behind John. As the doctor tried to prepare himself, the first blow came down hard in the middle of his back. The air was knocked from his lungs as he tried not to collapse on the floor. The first was followed by many others, each in a slightly different place, each just as hard as the previous, leaving John's back throbbing. He later realised, once Bobby had had his fun and left him alone again, returned to his chair, that he must have been wearing a ring on his finger, as each point where he had been hit remained stinging for longer in one place, after most of the initial pain had worn off. Later that, what felt to John like night, once most of the pain had passed (his back was hugely bruised, but if he sat slightly forward he couldn't tell as much) he began to think back over what Carruther's had said before he left: "make sure you leave our mark". John thought must have been something to do with the ring Bobby wore when he beat him. But what of his comment about Sherlock "unless your man has come and got you by then" what did that mean? Had he met with Sherlock? Was Sherlock going to save him? What if he never turned up?  
John was unsure what it meant, but he did know that he was in the same position as he had been before today's visit, only now he was much more bruised and even more angry.


	7. Chapter 7

When Sherlock arrived home after his encounter with Mr Carruthers, the adrenaline was coursing through his veins (possibly the result of the three nicotine patches he had slapped on to his lower left arm). This was a three patch problem if ever there was one. Throwing his Belstaff coat onto the hook adjacent to that which usually held John’s jacket, Sherlock slammed the door. He took the stairs two at a time, bursting into the flat and throwing himself down onto the sofa with a groan. He mustered up the courage to slowly unfurl the letter from John's captor, which he had been turning between his fingers the entire duration of the journey back. He flicked off the wax which was sealing the page, stamped with the usual five-sided shape. The paper unfolded greeting him with the all too familiar writing style, as to be expected another puzzle awaited him:  
“Down by the dockside, is the unfinished estate, there you must find him or seal his fate.  
I'll give you no number for surely you know, it's not like it's hidden, I've put it on show.”  
The detective scowled at the paper, reading it three times before reaching over and grabbing John's laptop, which was sat, as usual on the coffee table. He punched the keys, with slightly more force than John would have approved of had he been there. As he typed in the password “Sherlockpissoffyouhaveyourownlaptop” the ghost of a smile flicked across his face, no matter how bad the situation got (and this was almost the worst which Sherlock could think of) John never failed to put a stupid grin of the detective's face. Bringing up Google Maps, Sherlock focused his eyes on the Thames River, mentally plotting each place where there was a dock which could be the location of John's prison. The detective was able to narrow down the options, by focusing on the line “the unfinished estate”. There were very few places within the centre of the city that were home to the skeletons of settlements which had been given up on when money got tight, left to stand in shadow. This meant that John must be trapped somewhere in the outskirts of the city.  
Having double checked his knowledge of the intricate details of the London map, stored in his mind palace, with the aid of John’s laptop, Sherlock shifted and stretched himself out across the settee. Fingers steepled underneath his chin, the detective closed his eyes- he needed to concentrate.

 

By John’s estimation, nearly twenty-four hours must have passed since he had received his “visit” from Bobby. After the brute left him, John had slipped in and out of consciousness, partially from the pain (which was gradually subsiding, thank God) and partially because he hadn’t received any form of food since before he was beaten. John was becoming increasingly agitated, as one might expect, he was still so angry at himself for being captured, he was angry at the men holding him captive and he was angry at Sherlock. In his lethargic state, all he wanted was to be at home with a cup of tea and the company of his flatmate, the smartest man who knew. So many times he had accompanied Sherlock, chasing after robbers and murders through the dim backstreets of London. It very rarely took the consulting detective longer than two days to solve a mystery and so why had he not found his best friend yet? John had narrowed it down to two possibilities, either he had completely misjudged Sherlock and he didn’t care about the Doctor at all or, almost more worryingly, Sherlock was looking for him and he was stuck. If the latter was true, then that was the end, John would be held prisoner here until Mr Carruthers became bored with him, which he didn’t dare to think about.

 

When Sherlock reopened his eyes daylight had vanished and an orange glow from the street lamps outside held the flat in an eerie halflight. He sat upright, massaging his temples with his forefingers, his head was pounding and he had a pain in his stomach which could have been fear or due to him not having eat more than the occasional biscuit since John was taken- I’ve not had time he thought, pushing the pain out of the forefront of his mind. He was so close to working everything out. He had narrowed the location down to a possible three options based on the small amount of evidence he had gathered from Mr Carruthers’ riddle. Currently, the prevailing issue was that these three locations were miles apart from each other and it would not be possible to hunt each location top to toe in order to find John before Carruthers’ three day time limit ran out, given that the first third was almost over already (according to John’s laptop it was getting on for 3 o’clock in the morning). There was only one conclusion which could be drawn from this situation, as much as Sherlock hated to admit it, there was no way that John would survive if he continued to attempt to solve this on his own. Disappointed in himself for not being able to visit three places at the same time, Sherlock reached for his phone and dialed the number of the only person who he trusted in this matter.

~  
“Sherlock it’s ten to three in the fucking morning.” Greg growled into his phone “If this isn’t of national importance I am going to injure you”

Sherlock chewed his lower lip, unsure of the best way to proceed without annoying Inspector Lestrade more than he already had done.

“Are you even fucking there?” Greg sounded as mad as a person could, considering they’d been woken up and weren’t quite sure if this might just be a horrible dream.

“Sorry, yes.” Sherlock mumbled “It is important, I-“ Sherlock paused.

“You what?”

“I, I need you”

The detective could hear Lestrade chuckle on the other end of the line.

“What have you done now?” he smirked

“Not me, not really, I can’t, I-“ emotions were taking over Sherlock, he couldn’t let Greg hear him like this, but it was all too much for him to control.

“Just come,” Sherlock swallowed, “Please?”

 

It was half past three by the time Greg Lestrade was climbing up the stairs to Sherlock and John’s flat, he knocked gently on the door unsure of what awaited him. What greeted him was completely unexpected. Sherlock opened the door almost immediately, but it was immediately apparent that something serious was wrong. Although the detective was wearing his usual shirt and tailored trousers, they were marked with creases and his face was set in a firm line; there were dark circles under his eyes and when Lestrade stepped through the open hid nostrils were filled with the stench of cigar smoke. There was no mistaking that there was a big problem.  
“Sherlock,” Greg sighed, the concern clear in his voice as he perched on the arm of the sofa. “Can you tell me what’s happening?”

“It’s John.” the consulting detective collapsed down into John’s armchair, trying to seek some comfort.

“Okay, what about him?” asked Lestrade patiently

“He’s.” Sherlock’s throat seemed to be closing in on itself “He’s gone.”

Lestrade was confused to say the least, but it was evident from Sherlock’s state that he could not push him to unveil the story any faster.

“It’s okay Sherlock” he said, trying to be comforting whilst really hoping that it was okay “You can tell me, just in your own time, I’m not going anywhere”

Sherlock recounted the story to Greg, by the time he had finished explaining all the details it was passed four o’clock and Lestrade had decided that, although the situation was urgent (as well as completely heartbreaking) it was important that Sherlock got some sleep if they were to stand any chance of finding John before the time ran out.  
At first the detective resisted (“John is more important than my welfare”) but Greg wouldn’t relent (“Well maybe John is more important, but he would never forgive me if he found out that I let you continue in such a state”). By five in the morning Sherlock had taken a sleeping pill and gone to sleep (in John’s bed, he refused to sleep in his own). Greg set an alarm for eight, and allowed himself to close his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me ages and I'm so sorry, my only excuse is that UCAS and Colin Morgan took over... I've got the last chapters planned out and I'll get them up as soon as I can. Thank you for reading- any comments/kudos I really appreciated :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I need to apologise for how long this chapter has taken me (I blame the education system). This hasn't been beta'd at all so any mistakes are mine and I promise the next two chapters (which I have planned) will be 100% better than this one.  
> Any comments are much appreciated. Thank you for reading :)

By the time Greg had woken to his bellowing alarm clock, his neck incredibly stiff from sleeping on the couch, Sherlock was quietly pacing up and down the kitchen. He was still dressed in the shirt from the day before (possibly from the day before that, judging by the deep creases) and as soon as he noticed Greg sit upright on the sofa he was standing in front of the detective looking impatient.  
"We need to go." he instructed, no hint of the previous night's emotion in his voice. "We've waited long enough."  
Greg rubbed his eyes and looked at Sherlock with a sad smile, although it was clear that the consulting detective had decided to hide his pain behind his usual sociopathic exterior, Greg had seen the anguish in his eyes the night before and he knew that that kind of emotion did not dissipate quickly.  
"Okay mate, if you make coffee in a flask while I use the bathroom we can be ready to go in five, is that alright?"  
Knowing that Sherlock would have to accept and that it would only take him two minutes to get ready, Greg headed for the bathroom, not waiting for the other man's response.  
As Greg had expected, they were out of the flat and into the car by five past eight and so would begin one of the most emotionally and physically tiring days of their lives.

"Right Sherlock, I will drop you at the first possible location and drive to the second. Once I arrive I'll call you and we can talk each other through what we're seeing, I need you to keep talking to me so I can call for backup if you need it and vice versa."  
Although Sherlock hated being told what to do, there was no denying that if Lestrade wasn't there he would be completely unprepared for the situation he was about to enter into.  
"If we're both unsuccessful at our primary location you can call a cab and I'll meet you at the third site, okay?"  
The consulting detective nodded slowly, head bowed nervously focusing on his knees.  
"Hey," Greg said gently "we will find him, I promise you, we will."

~

It was only about fifteen minutes until Greg was dropping Sherlock off at the entrance to an abandoned block of flats. The tall man nodded his thanks to Lestrade, promising that he would answer the phone when the inspector rang him later, he looked up at the building which loomed above him. Was this where John was hiding? The prospect of searching every inch of this structure was daunting, but the thought of John being trapped inside was enough to spur the detective on.

Teasing open the doors into the apartments lobby didn't take long, but Sherlock was still unsure of where to begin his search. His mind was clouded, thoughts were jumbled together, a feeling which he was certainly not used to experiencing.

He decided to check to first empty flats, but after half an hour of fruitless searching, almost all of the ground floor flats had not provided the answer. When he marched towards the door which he assumed lead to a set of stairs he was greeted with blast of cool air from outside, the staircase had not been built before the building's plans had been given up on.

Striding out of the building, Sherlock punched in Greg’s number and stuck the phone under his chin.  
“Have you found him?” Sherlock barked down the phone as soon as he heard Greg begin to introduce himself.  
“Woah hold up Sherlock,” Greg sounded startled by Sherlock’s assertion “I guess he isn’t you are?”  
Sherlock mumbled uncomfortably on the other end.  
Greg sighed, once again drowning in sympathy for his friend. “No I haven’t found him yet, Sherlock, this place was a waste of time I’m afraid. The building’s ruins, a rotting mess.”  
“Right, okay” the detective certainly sounded disappointed “how long until you can get to the final site?”  
“If I get into the car right away I can make it there in 15 minutes if I push the speed limits.” Lestrade massaged his forehead with his free hand, this is not how he had expected to be spending these days. “So if you can catch a cab, I’ll meet you there.”  
“Mmh okay”  
“Oh and Sherlock?”  
“Yeah?”  
“Just keep going, he will be there I’m almost sure of it.”

Sherlock hung up the phone as soon as Greg finished speaking, he couldn’t let him hear the lump that was gradually building up in his throat. He slapped himself around the face with a gloved hand, “pull yourself together” he mumbled to himself, throwing his phone back into his coat pocket and marching off towards the nearest road which was busy enough to find a taxi on.  
Whilst waiting he thought back to the day when he had first met John: They’d gone out for a meal in Angelo’s restaurant and Sherlock had foolishly told John that he was not interested in a relationship. “Married to his work” he’d said, he kicked himself as he remembered the disappointed “oh” which John had responded with.  
“I couldn’t exactly have said “well John, I didn’t know I had the capability to feel attraction towards another human until a couple of hours ago so I’m still figuring things out” could I?” he thought to himself.  
The familiar sight of a beetle black taxi pulling up in front of him, pulled Sherlock from his thoughts. He swung himself into the car, croaked out the address and plunged himself back into thought.  
This time he wouldn’t be such a wimp. When he was finally reunited with John he would tell him how he feels, the way his heart swells when he sees John get angry about something he reads in the newspaper, the way John doesn’t seem to think that he’s a ‘freak’ or a ‘weirdo’ like everyone else. His silly jumpers, the smell of his shampoo and the way he comes home from work and you can tell how stressful he’s day has been by the tidiness of his hair. Everything aspect of John Watson made Sherlock smile.  
“Goddamn I am so fucking in love.”

~  
“Here we are mate” called the driver into the back of the cab.  
“Great, thanks” said Sherlock as he stuffed a note in the direction of the driver. The door slammed behind him before the man could attempt to give him change.  
“Here - SH” he sent to Greg.  
Slowly wandering around the building taking in his surroundings and noticing no sign of Lestrade’s car he punched out another message: “Going in, I may need back up - SH”. 

~  
His head dizzied and pounding from lack of water, John was unsure that he could test anything which he saw or heard. But even in his uncomfortable state he was sure that he heard a door slamming somewhere below him. He listened carefully, but there were no other sounds, besides the pulse which was throbbing through his aching body.  
“I must have just imagined it” he thought to himself as he returned to staring at the floor in front of him, once again considering the the ultimatum which Carruthers had revealed to him. Then he heard it again. The sound of a door shutting somewhere, this time nearer to where it had been before. After the distant slamming he thought he heard a shout, but maybe he was just hallucinating.  
Another door creaked and then slammed, proving that John had not entirely gone insane (unless he had cracked completely), someone was definitely in the building, and surely it couldn’t be one of the enemy? For they knew where he was and surely had no need for the other rooms, it had been made quite clear to John that he was the only person that they needed as bait for Sherlock.  
The shout which he then heard was enough to almost prove his insanity for it sounded like a cry of “John?” the voice was muffled and he couldn’t be sure, there was no way to test the reality of the sound when he was strapped to a chair with duct tape around his mouth.  
Then he heard it again. Clearer this time, it was almost definitely Sherlock.

~  
He’d searched three of the ground floor flats when Sherlock’s phone buzzed in his pocket. A message from Lestrade read: I’ve checked outside and you seem to be alone, I’ll wait here unless you say otherwise”.  
Scanning the screen quickly the detective shoved the phone back into his pocket, deciding that finding John was infinitely more important. The ground floor flats had proven empty and Sherlock was feeling desperate. He had called out John’s name several times in hope of a response, but at the same time he scalded himself, for thinking John would even be in a fit state to responded to his calls. He may not even be conscious.

Running his hands through his curls’ Sherlock trudged up the stairs, thinking of any clues which may lead to the answer, and then it came to him. The one factor which he had not considered. The pentagon. The symbol had signed each piece of correspondence he had received from Carruthers, “I’ll give you no number for surely you know”. Five. John was in flat number five.


	9. Chapter 9

Suddenly Sherlock’s body was filled with a new energy, he knew where John was, he was going to find him.  
Taking the stairs two at a time, he reached the second floor. His mind was racing as he marched towards the door at the other end of the damp, cobweb-lined corridor. As he approached, it was clear that on the door someone had drawn the symbol which had been taunting Sherlock all this time. The door to flat number five was marked with a pentagon.

He stood with his feet parallel to the door, after all this time worrying about finding John he was finally with him, separated by only a few feet and some plywood. But yet he was filled with nerves, being reunited with his friend meant that all problems he’d experienced in the last few days would have to be dealt with. What if he poured his heart out and finally opened up to someone only to have John say “sorry mate” and leave him? What if he had read all the signs wrong and John didn’t actually care about him at all?  
“Shut up for God’s sake” Sherlock mumbled to himself, whether John loved him or not he was still being held captive because Sherlock’s heart and head were too busy having an argument.  
With a deep breath he slowed push open the door.

~

John’s vision was blurring and his neck was failing to maintain it’s purpose of holding up his head when he heard the door creaking in front of him, he tried to look up but his eyelids were working against him. He could see the figure of a man coming towards him but it wasn’t until the silhouette spoke that he realised that he was finally being rescued.

“John?” the man said in a deep baritone “John, can you hear me?”  
The Doctor tried to respond but as he gradually lifted his head to see a rather bedraggled looking Sherlock staring intently at him, all he could manage was a weak yet sarcastic “mmhmhhm” through his taped up mouth.  
“Dammit shit sorry” Sherlock mumbled quickly reaching to remove the gag. John opened his mouth to speak but his vocal chords were too dry, he gazed up at Sherlock with a thankful smile instead. The detective’s phone started to buzz in his pocket.  
“Sorry” he said as he looked down at his screen clicking the ‘accept call’ button “Greg yes wh-“  
“They’re here Sherlock, we have a problem. They haven’t seen me but they’re now coming into the building. Sorry I know you didn’t want this but I’m calling for backup”  
“I- uh”  
“No Sherlock that wasn’t a question, it’s happening, you need to stay with him there’s nothing you can do to escape so just don’t be an idiot, okay?”  
The detective began to formulate an answer but Greg had already clicked off.

Sherlock turned his attention back to John who was looking up at him with inquisitive eyes. “We may have a problem” he said “But I think, I hope, that we’ll be okay”  
John was unsure of how to respond, his throat and mouth feeling slightly better he managed to rasp out.  
“Okay well, if we’re going to have to fight then you better bloody well untie my hands” he was trying to sound lighthearted but Sherlock looked like he’s just been scalded and immediately went about releasing him mumbling all kinds of apologies.  
Once John had been released from the restraints he flexed his wrists, trying to assess the damage- his joints were stiff, there were large gashes on his arms where the ties had dug into his skin and some minor swelling but nothing that couldn’t be easily treated.

The detective began to pull away but John reached out and grabbed his hand  
“Hey, look, we’ll be alright I-”  
But at the moment the door swung open and Carruthers walked in.  
“Oh well,” he drawled “look what we have here, a nice little reunion.”  
Sherlock released himself from John’s limp grip and straightened himself out, fixing the emotionless mask back onto his face.  
“What do you want?” he growled. “You said that if I solved the riddle you’d let us go; well I did it, I played the game and I won so let us go home.” John thought that there was a note of pleading to his last word but the adrenaline was fading fast and so he couldn’t rely upon his own judgement.  
“No, see, you heard what you wanted to hear from what I said.” and ugly smile crept across his shadowed face “If you recall, I told you that I would give John back to you, what I did not say was that I would let either of you go free.”  
He walked across the room so that he was standing not 2 feet away from Sherlock. “As I’m sure you figured out, Dr Watson here was never the one that I wanted to hurt.” he chuckled to himself “Oh no, this was for you Mr Holmes, it’s all been about you. See I couldn't possibly kidnap you as easily as I did you’re soulmate here, so it was a matter of playing the waiting game.”  
Sherlock took the man’s dramatic pause as an opportunity to ask his questions.  
“Okay, you’ve got me, well done, but surely as you’ve been successful in beating the 'Great Sherlock Holmes' you’ll do me the honour of explaining the reason behind all of this.”  
“You mean you don’t remember? Eight months ago when a sweet middle aged woman came to you asking to help her find out why her jewellery collection was slowly being depleted?”  
He paused staring intently at Sherlock’s face as he figured out the plan.  
“Well yes, I remember all my cases, the woman’s husband was taking advantage of her secret wealth; it turned out that he had changed his identity and used to be called Henry Carr- oh shit”  
The other man grinned terribly “Oh so now he gets it! See because of you, my brother went into prison, and we went out of business. We had it all sorted out, he found a rich partner and we sold on the jewels in order to kick start what would have been a fantastic smuggling trade. But oh no, the wise and wonderful Sherlock Holmes stepped in and now my hopes of fortune have vanished. And so has your future.”

“Oh no I don’t think that it has.” Detective Inspector Lestrade said as he kicked open the door “because I just caught all of that on tape and I have your henchmen in police custody. So are you going to come quietly or will you give me the pleasure of beating you up first?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it has taken so long, I'm awful! This hasn't been beta'd so any mistakes are my own and I do sincerely apologise. Thank you so much for reading :) the finally chapter will be here very soon!!


	10. Chapter 10

John blinked slowly, his eyes adjusting to the bright lights shining from the ceiling above him. Where am I? he thought to himself but his ears quickly tuned into the regular beeping coming from his left-hand side Oh, I’m in hospital. John shifted to look around at the machine which he was attached to, not surprised to see that it was measuring his heart rate, his attention was then drawn to the familiar tall dark shape sat in the corner of the room bolt upright, with eyes closed and fingers steepled under his chin. John was surprised that his movements hadn’t caused Sherlock to leap up next to him like an eager puppy, but as he paid closer attention to the pattern of the detective’s breathing and the gentle snuffles that he occasionally let out, John realised that Sherlock was fast asleep.  
Smiling, he tried to shift himself into a sitting position but when he did so a wave of dizziness hit him, his vision blurred and once more, consciousness slipped from him.

The doctor’s head was pounding when he opened his eyes again, this time there was a pair of grey-green eyes staring back at him.  
“John? John, can you hear me?” Sherlock asked gently  
“Yes,” he groaned “I can.”  
“The doctor’s said you woke up, but I was sleeping, I didn’t notice so I couldn’t tell you what condition you’re in.” His face looked like a wounded puppy’s.  
“Hey, it’s okay,” John’s hand found Sherlock’s at the side of the bed “It’s not your job to look after me, that’s the reason that I’m in hospital.”  
“I know but-“  
“No, it is okay, everything is going to be okay.” He squeezed the detective’s hand gently “Although I seem to have blacked out on the passed few hours, so if you could fill me in that would be much appreciated.”

John listened intently, right hand still on top of the detective’s left, while Sherlock explained all that had happened; smiling at the thought of how brave this man had been throughout this ordeal. Just as Sherlock was coming to the end of his tale, reaching the part where Carruthers and his men had been taken in to police custody and Lestrade had dealt with all the press to ensure that Sherlock could stick with John every step of the way, there was a knock on the door and in came a short female doctor with chestnut hair pulled back into a bun. She proceeded to explain that, although John has no severe injuries, because of the severe dehydration he has experienced, it was necessary for him remain in hospital for another eight hours under observation. Sherlock looked disheartened when he heard this but the doctor assured him that is was purely precautionary and he was welcome to stay with his partner (John smiled as she said this) until the time was up.

Their time in the hospital passed more quickly than anticipated. The pair wasted the hours playing a game where John tried to deduce as much as he could about the nurses and Sherlock gave him a score out of ten.  
“I should be given extra credit for my effort,” John grumbled after Sherlock had scored him a one out of ten because he had misjudged the previous nurse’s age by 6 months.  
“I’ve been through a lot recently, you should be more kind to me!” He joked.  
Sherlock shrugged at this remark, not earning the laugh that John had been expecting. “I’ve been through a lot too you know.” The detective stared at his shoes, “I-“ moving his gaze back up to John’s face, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I thought I was going to lose you, I thought, I’d never see you again.”  
John’s face softened as he shifted himself closer to where Sherlock was sat, elbows resting on his knees, to the side of the bed.  
“Hey,” he whispered, reaching out a hand to cup Sherlock’s chin, tilting his face up to meet his eyes. “I’m so sorry that this happened to us, but I’m here now, okay?” the detective nodded slightly. “And I promise that I’m not going to leave you, ever.”  
“What-” the detective mumbled “What if I annoy you, what if you grow to hate me for one reason or another, what if-.“  
John pulled Sherlock’s face up to reach his, their lips met gently in a chaste kiss. John smiled against Sherlock’s mouth, he chuckled lightly.  
“What about that then?” He drew back, one hand still caressing Sherlock’s face. “Do you really think I could ever hate you Sherlock? You’re the one person who’s saved me from darkness, I can’t even begin to imagine what my life would be like if I didn’t live with you anymore. All I could think about when I was in that place was how it would be okay, because my best friend, the most fantastic individual in the entire world, would be out there looking for me. I knew, Sherlock,” He brushed a tear from under the detective’s eye “I knew that you would find me, I never doubted you.”  
“Are you sure?” Sherlock coughed lightly, “Um because-“ a small smile crept slowly onto his face. “I’m not very skilled in this area but” He sniffed slightly, wishing his eye’s would stop crying “-but uh I’m not sure that best friends usually kiss each other so…”  
There was a pause while John registered what Sherlock had just said to him. A grin spread across his face. “You’re a mess, do you know that? I just poured my entire bloody heart and soul out to you and all you think about is that I kissed you? Well then.” He folded his arms in mock anger, deliberately looking in the opposite direction to Sherlock. “Maybe I won’t kiss you again, see how you like that.”  
“Hmm I doubt that very much.” Sherlock said with a sly smile.  
Before their argument could progress any further, the brunette doctor from previously entered, smiling.  
“Hello, your time is up Doctor Watson, you are free to go.”  
-  
The two men were just walking out of the hospital, John still feeling slightly weak and therefore relying on Sherlock’s arm gripping his to keep him steady, heading towards the taxi rank when a sleek black BMW pulled up in front of them. The chauffeur got out and opened the door saying.  
“Your brother heard about what happened and he wanted to make sure you got home safely. Please, take a seat.”

The cab journey home was silent, Sherlock and John each feeling content in knowing that the other was with them and they’d soon be back to normality. Before long, the car pulled up in front of that familiar black door and John was hoisting himself out of the seat. Sighing, he looked up at the building looming in front of him, it was strange to be here again after all that had happened. He looked down as the detective entwined their hands.  
“It’s alright, you’re back now.” The man said to him “I’m with you, and I’m never leaving you alone for one fucking second okay?”  
John’s only response was to grasp his hand tighter and take the first steps back into their home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I've taken absolutely ages to get this written (boo hiss shame on me), but, this was meant to be the last chapter and I've decided to whack on an epilogue as I wasn't quite ready to finish it off in this chapter, so I mean that's a bonus right?! And I am 100% going to get that finished and uploaded tonight too!! So yeah, sorry for the delay, as per usual all the mistakes are my own and thank you so much for reading!! Any comments are very welcome


	11. Epilogue

Sherlock was sat on his bed, trying to concentrate on his book, pretending that he wasn’t listening out for John’s movement in the flat, when there was a light knock on the door.  
He smiled as it creaked open and the doctor poked his head around, his hair sticking up at all angles as he’d just emerged from the shower.  
“Hey.” He murmured as he entered the room, “Is it alright if I come in?”  
“Oh yeah of course it is,” Sherlock grinned, shutting his book and putting it on the bedside table. It had been several hours since the pair had arrived back at 221B, Sherlock had left John to it, giving him chance to settle back in.  
“How are you feeling?” The detective asked as John shuffled into the room looking around awkwardly.  
“Uh, I’m okay I think.” He said nervously, he’d never really been in Sherlock’s room before so he wasn’t sure how to behave. Sherlock seemed to sense this as he swung his legs off the bed and walked to meet him.  
“I’ve not felt this unsure in a long while you know.” John said, looking up at his companion. “I’m scared and confused, Sherlock, and I don’t know why. I should be happy now that I’m back and I’m with you, but-“ He breathed deeply, looking down at his feet. “I managed to keep myself strong for so long when I was in there and now that I’m out I just feel so drained, I need to relax but I’m not sure how to do that.” John swallowed hard, and Sherlock’s heart ached painfully in his chest, he needed to help him.  
“I’m not very good at this,” Sherlock muttered, moving his hand out in a subtle motion, just in case John wouldn’t want to accept it. “But I mean, you can just stay in here with me for a bit if you want?”  
“Yes please.” John smiled weakly, his gaze drifting towards the movement of Sherlock’s hand. “I would really appreciate that.”  
He placed his hand in the detectives and for a minute they just stood there together, Sherlock’s thumb rubbing gentle circles on his wrist.  
“Um, did you want to maybe sit down or something?”  
John gave a slight nod in response so Sherlock led him over and stretched out against the headboard. They lay next to each other in silence for a while, John slowly shifting himself more and more onto Sherlock so eventually his head was resting on his chest, listening to the steady beating of his heart, his legs curled up and nestling into the side of the detective’s torso. They stayed this way for some time, the quiet was comfortable and the company was enough for each of them.

“John?” asked Sherlock eventually.  
“Mmhmm?” wearily he replied.  
“You know how much I care about you, right?”  
“Yeah, I think so.” His voice not much more than a whisper.  
“Because, well,” He paused, about to tread into waters he’d not tested before. “I’m so thankful for you and I would do anything to make you feel happy and comfortable now that you're home. And I need to make sure you know that, okay? I’m never going to let this happen to you again, you have my word on that.”  
“Thank you Sherlock,” John moved around, sitting up so that his face was level with Sherlock’s. “Seriously, I would be so lost without you.”  
He reached out a hand cautiously, running it through some of his messy curls. He studied the man’s face intently, he’s never had the chance to be so close to him before today, so he was damned if he wasn’t going to make the most of it.  
“You’re beautiful, did you know that?” his hand now tracing the line of his spectacular cheekbones. The detective hummed in response. John’s fingers stopped once he’d reached his chin, he brought his eyes up to Sherlock’s, who blinked back at him and slowly moved forwards, closing the gap between them. They kissed slowly for a while, gently with no pressure for anything more, John’s hands reached around to Sherlock’s back as he shifted their bodies closer together. Eventually Sherlock pulled away shyly.  
“I’m sorry,” He looked down, nervous all of a sudden. “I’m not sure I can let this happen, not yet.” He was playing nervously with the back of John’s t-shirt. “You’ve been through a lot John and I don’t want you to just do this and then change your mind, because I can’t go back to normal once this has happened, it’s too important.”  
“Hey,” John kissed him cautiously on the cheek. “You’re right, I’m sorry.” It was his turn to avoid eye contact. “I’m a mess and it’s not fair for me to do that to you, but I won’t change my mind, okay? I’ve wanted this for too long, I just never realised.” He shifted around so he was sat parallel to Sherlock, legs bent up to his chest. “I really want this to happen, believe me I do. You’re the most amazing person I have ever met and I’m never going to let that go.”  
Sherlock smiled slightly, still feeling somewhat ashamed even though he knew he had no reason to. John made to leave the bed but the detective grabbed his wrist gently.   
“You don’t have to go, okay?” John turned back to face him, his face a mixture of emotions. “I mean you can leave if you want, but I would like it if you didn’t.”  
John rubbed his eyes, he was definitely an emotional wreck tonight.   
“Yeah okay, I would like that too.”  
He climbed back into the bed next to Sherlock and they resumed their earlier position. Sherlock reached over to flick off the bedside lamp, he lay there staring at the ceiling, bathed in the orange glow from the street lamps, listening to the doctor’s breathing as he slipped quickly into sleep.   
He tried to ignore the fear in the back of his mind, this was his first shot at a relationship like this and he was so scared of messing things up. But as the detective looked down at John, who was snoring gently on his chest, he realised that this man would be the only person to ever understand him and to think that he could both understand and love him was enough to blow Sherlock’s mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here we are, I've finally finished it! Thank you all so much for reading and I'm so sorry that it took so long. Any feedback on this would be brilliant (I mean I'd prefer it to be kind but yeah). Much love beautiful readers! (As always if there are mistakes I'm very sorry)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, hey, this is my first proper fic so any feedback at all would be very welcome, thank you for reading.


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